Promise of Ashes
by marcasite
Summary: AU- Her fingers brush against the glass of the window, against the cracks in the glass. She takes her gaze out to what had once been the city, now just barren, and she shakes her head.


_This was written for the **Geekfiction Elemental Ficathon.** My element was Fire, my prompt gasoline._

_This is an AU piece that is something completely out of __my element. I could not have done it without Leslie and Kara who encouraged and corrected me along the way._

* * *

It had started with a match and a can of gasoline.

She thinks she remembers life before, the thirty-eight years that were hers to remember. Grissom tells her that she idealizes the past, the life she had, the life before. His voice is dry (and so very brittle), as he reminds her of her of this. She shrugs and allows his words to wash over her, understands that he needs some control, some semblance of structure. She needs him so she lets it go. There is no despair, just facts, just reality (so very Grissom).

Her lips curl as the heat continues to assault, even as she ducks into the sand-colored building that is currently posing as a hospital. A last drag of her cigarette and she carefully tosses it beneath her boot, stifling the amber glow. She started smoking on the third month, after the church filled with dead nuns, all lying littered across the alter in a grotesque mocking of what had once been a religious offering. Sara knows that God stopped paying attention after that and she doesn't remember who handed her the cigarette but she's never looked back. The irony of a slow death is not lost on her, and in her life before, she would be horrified at the thought of filling her lungs with smoke.

That was before.

Before the smoke, the fires, the endless heat. Before the bodies, all the bodies. Greg had joked that at least they were dead and not 'flesh eating zombies' and at the time, Sara had agreed. But there were too many dead, too many dying and each one took a piece of her soul with them.

The hospital doesn't provide any relief from the heat, all the doors and windows left propped open, waiting for the errant breeze. She knows it's not coming. Her heels are the only noise she hears as she makes her way to the morgue, flashing her badge at the armed guards. He steps forward to scan it and her breath catches as she waits. For a second (every time), she thinks that her badge won't pass and just like that, her life the way she knows it, is over.

The guard hands her the badge and simply nods at her. She brushes quietly past him and makes her way to Grissom's office, tucked inside what had once been the morgue. The silent stretch of hallway unnerves her and she wants nothing more than to hide in the sanctuary of his office, away from oppressive silence, away from the stifling heat.

He smiles at her when she enters, features softening as he beckons her in. She drops her case to the floor and heads for the window. Grissom's hidden a small garden below the window pane (she doesn't even know how he was able to steal the seeds) and she loves to brush her fingers against the softness growing there. She leans her head against the glass of the window, seeking a respite from the heat that wasn't there.

Her fingers brush against the glass of the window, against the cracks in the glass. She takes her gaze out to what had once been the city, now just barren, and she shakes her head.

"What are they saying?" She knows the answer.

He joins her at the window and then turns, sitting against the ledge. Funny, she wonders when she started to get used to quiet, when for years it was nothing but screams. Her forehead drops to the glass and he sighs.

"The same," he answers finally, his voice is full of grit and weariness. But there's warmth there, warmth he reserves for her.

Her lips curl slightly. "I'm not surprised. I wish that something would change, that maybe we could-, just leave."

He smiles. And she turns, mirroring his position. He doesn't know what to say, his mouth opens, but she shakes her head, rubbing her hands over her face wearily. She doesn't know what to think anymore, but she knows that she's tired of the bodies, the routine of staying alive.

"One day, Sara. You believe me?" It is stark in its need.

She turns to burrow her face in his shoulders, "Yes. Always."

* * *

"Do you remember when the nights were cooler?"

They lay on top of the bed, sheets twisted around her legs. The silence used to drive her mad; she never imagined that she would ever get use to it.

His voice is tired, soft. "Yeah."

She sighs, tugging slightly on the sheets. "I dream about the breeze sometimes, the wind. I miss those nights."

His fingers close around her hand, bringing it to his mouth. His touch has always soothed her and she knows he is comforting her in the only way he can. He leans over and gently tangles his free hand through her hair, twisting slightly as she shifts closer to him. His kiss is gentle and full of hope.

"Go to sleep, Sara. The wind isn't that far away and it will be like before."

There's truth in his lie.

* * *

Before was five years ago, March of the year two thousand ten. A lone man drove across the George Washington Bridge in a small, non-descript car. Once he had made his journey across the Hudson River, he pulled over into a small alcove and walked around to the trunk. Reaching in, he pulled out a can of gasoline and proceeded to pour the contents out. Tossing the can to the side, he pulled out a cigarette from his shirt pocket and proceeded to light it. Inhaling deeply, the man took one last look and tossed the match onto the car.

Walking away from the car, now engulfed in flames, he pulled a pistol out of the waistband of his jeans and shot himself in the head, leaving no witnesses.

The car had contained several vials of a virus (does it even matter what it had been called?), a virus that had spread so quickly, hospitals and morgues were overwhelmed. The government reacted slowly and people watched in horror as it had continued its deadly rampage across the country. Somewhere along the way the virus changed; mutating into something less deadly, less contagious.

But the damage had already been done, hundreds of thousand dead. The landscape of the population had been changed forever. Now, it was dealing with the aftermath of the viral attack and all the bodies, so many bodies.

That was when the fires started, the endless bands of smoke and heat.

So many dead, so many dying it had been the only way they could eliminate the threat of more disease, eliminating the bodies. The living had been left to deal, the dead left to burn.

It had started, and ended, with a match and a can of gasoline.


End file.
